Adverse to the surfaces
upon which I stand
the wasp swirls in loop-de-loops
corner to corner.
Where there are voices
the benign readily submits
to the red scream of the
pale man in his pronged mask.
It is him who calls
forth this speck of pain
in the white heat of day.
The strike that draws
my breath taught
in shots of unknown--
chest and lungs and heart to bear all.
There are no charts to steer
out of this sealed room.
No compass steady enough
for this siege of tremors.
It might happen or it might not--
the perch and the quick puncture
may or not--nonetheless
the work is halted—
staid surfaces overturned
and the world gone
tilted at the sight
of such small flight.